The False Gods of Old and the New lives of Orphans
by Ryxis
Summary: The seasons go by so quickly.
1. Prologue

**10/5/11: This introduction was written about a year ago. Since then, I've developed this world more than I should have rather than working on the story (A quasi language, history, and a map of Illisia, I'll upload the map as soon as I get access to a scanner). This chapter, however, was quickly put together in about an hour and uploaded in the same manner: as hastily and quickly as possible. While it is a shameful mess of words, I honestly can't find it in me to re-write it unless I had major time on my hands (which, I do not). The only explanation I have is that the idea came to me in the middle of the night and I had to write it down somewhere or risk forgetting it altogether. It was late and I was tired.**

**I guess the trifles, trials, tribunals, dealings, politics, drama, and (most of all) the adventures of the land of Illisia and the nations of Cerenia never seem to leave my head, however, I do request that you leave a review, even if it's not constant, a little guidance once in a while never hurts.**

**So in other words, please excuse this mess, review the rest.**

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><p><strong>Prologue: Homeworld<strong>

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><p><em>"Turning and turning in the widening gyre<em>  
><em>The falcon cannot hear the falconer;..."<em>

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><p>"Fire!"<p>

A mass volley of arrows was then flung into the night sky. _Kisre, dearest father Kisre look upon us, restore the true throne of Ilisia._

Soon, a counter-volley was spotted by a scout just over the hill. He came tumbling down, taking a few bushes in the open plain with him.

"Magi to arms!"

And twenty of the best talents ran to the front, soon a large bubble of blue shimmering light appeared over the crowd of archers.

General Capitan La'istarlo Kirgios looked upon the darkened field of battle, the sounds of solders, the clatter of swords upon shields, the spilling of blood. This was the glory of his country come alive.

In his large boots, and with a rumble with every step, he and his men climbed the hill, and then looked over the plateau that oversaw the battle. This was the true test of men and wit, knowledge and force. And he was the best at it. This was his night.

Upon the battlefield, sparks of red and green could be seen, often flashing from one end to the other in a grand display of lights, with blue bubbles often shielding and blocking such energies. Swords clashed, some sparked as metal met metal with stunning effect. The smell of burning pine wood filled the air; magic.

He raised his arm, and in the glorious chorus he knew so well, the archers raised their bows each hand crafted and made especially to each bowman. The crack and groaning of the wood filled his ears in a grand chorus of might. These were the true-eyes: the best archers in all of Ilisia. Able to mark their target and let their arrows fly true.

Letting his arm fall, the snap of hundreds of arrows, cutting the sky into pieces, and slicing the moons' dark, filled his ears.

A scout ran beside him, half out of breath, here to carry his warning.

"Another Volley sir!"

He grinned: _too easy._

"Magi to arms!"

And he was soon encased in the blue shield, arrows bouncing pathetically off its hard surface.

The scout ran back to its spot in the deeper hill. Lord General began walking back into the crowd, the archers could hold their own, captain or none.

Just as he had approached the commanders tent, not several hundred meters away, a messenger had caught him off guard.

"Lord General Captain, sir, a message…"

And with a large hand, he removed the envelope from the messenger, and unsealed it, and nodded to the thinly looking man in thanks.

He sat down next to a campfire, outside of the entrance of the largest tent. The screams of men surrounded him as they ran to the battlefield. The night here was filled with dark and gold, the glimmering of green eyes in the firelight. He took a claw to the seal of the letter…

Inside was his wife's handwriting…

_I fear that I will not make it past birth, sometimes talent is not a gift. Come quickly at your greatest haste._

He looked up quickly, for a stable boy.

"A beast, if you would please!"

His estate sat simply on the edge of the forest and the mountains. A large house built of the finest stone and mortar in Illisia. Here he was, lord of this realm and now it's last defender. Running in the tide of battle would not serve well for the morale of his men, but perhaps the birth of his child would.

His large stature did not allow for speed, but was able to make the trip within an hour. The flatlands and the forest were not at great distance. Yet this was not an event he would dare miss.

He rode tonight, basked in moonlight. This was the month of the harvest, a jeweled moon this month. When the winters came, the dead moon would show its face.

The entire prairie was shimmering, the waves of grass appearing as ivory when the wind brushed upon their tops. In the distance: lights. He was getting close.

When he arrived, he didn't have time to stable the beast, instead he would let the stable-boy care for it. He only had time to come up the main road into the front courtyard, now glowing red from the torchlight. Well, the whole house was lit, deep red from each torch.

Nothing could stop him from slamming in the doors as he was greeted by a nurse.

"Where is she? Where is my wife!"

Just as the nurse pointed to a back room, still in shock, La'Istarlo heard the voice of his wife, screaming, in labor.

No time to get out of your blood-stained armor, he removed his helmet at least, taking care not to destroy the feathers.

Within a room of the large estate, he jogged in, still in heavy boots. And there she was.

Madame Leuteos lay on the bed, writhing in the birth pangs. Beside her, two nurses attended to her. Speaking to her, and comforting her.

She looked up, straight at him, and observed his armor for a quick moment, before another pang writhed her body.

"I saw this," she barely spoke out, "I am sorry for not informing you beforehand. _In the tide of death, life would come._Only Kisere would allow such a thing to happen."

He only kneeled down beside her bed, hushing her.

"Save your strength, you'll need it later."

"I know I'm not going to survive."

He only hushed her again, keeping a gentle composure. But the Lord General was anything but.

Soon, the final push, Madame Leuteos filled the room with her voice, sending shivers down even the Lord General's spine and tail.

In its midst, the crying of a child could be heard.

One of the nurses quickly brought it up, attending to it.

Soon, she had it wrapped in a cloth, the young child.

Madame Leuteos looked into its eyes, and smiled.

"It's a girl," she said, "With your eyes, green, like pure jewels from Kisre himself," she said, cooing in the child's ear, "My little jewel," she stuttered, with pain almost.

She gave the child to the Lord General, picking her up with the grace of picking up a brick. Madame Leuteos only started speaking to herself, "_My little jewel…"_

"What shall we name her?" Lord General said, smiling, with joy at his newborn child.

Madame Leuteos only mumbled to herself even more, "My little jewel, my precious stone, my precious Krystal…"

And she was gone, silence, hung like storm clouds in the air.

"Hello, Krystal," Lord General said, breaking the silence, quietly holding the child, but soon he broke down in tears.


	2. Inevitable Consequences

**Edits: I took Chaos Leader's corrections to heart + added a scene that I forgot to do.**

_**Volume I: Blood Harvest**_

_Chapter 1: Inevitable Consequences_

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><p><em>"...Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;..."<em>

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><p>Please rate and review, so I know how and where to improve if the quality is poor.<p>

For the rest of the evening, they had prepared the Madame's body for burial; family members who lived on manor grounds prepared their homes for the mourning period. The servants had also prepared a room for the child, a small, quickly converted attic space at the top of the manor. Kirgios was still in his armor when he laid his child to sleep, stroking her head as gently as he could with the small wrap of blankets, all while still wearing gauntlets. Somehow in all the chaotic motions, he was able to rock her to sleep.

When he had laid her head down on the makeshift crib, he noticed the grime of battle staining the side of her face.

_How foolish of me!_

He took the nearest white linen and dabbed her face to remove the dirt and blood, and then slowly dimmed the lamp so that the tan earthen colored walls were painted dark red and opened the window so that the cool summer air gently blew through. Outside, the moons shone through the blinds, crickets sang in the evening, followed by the whispers of the wind.

Kirgios watched her for a bit, sobbing softly into his arm, taking care not to wake her in his time of sorrow. He knelt there for some time, on the side of the crib, weeping.

Unfortunately, tomorrow, he would have to ride back to war. His thoughts were no longer on his country and his duty as they should be, but his concern for family. If he was to become one of the dead, leaving Krystal without a father, perhaps the maids would do a good job of her upbringing. Her diplomatic skills however, would have to develop from experience, not teachings. He would not be able to shape the future of his child. He was horrified by an improper upbringing, what if she was to be taught improperly?

What was he thinking! He was the Lord General in the entire province of Illisia, death was not a concern: it was an honor. Honor was a value he would want to instill in her mind before her coming of age. He did not like it, but honor is not an easy value to teach. Honor, duty, and his calling to the kingdom were the essence and inspiration of every man. He, of course, knew the ways of teaching a man. But the teachings of a child were new to him.

Perhaps example was the best way. Courage and honor is best demonstrated in the field of battle. An example set in the greatest sacrifice.

These things, however, would come in time, if he would be alive tomorrow or not.

When he left the attic room, there was the head maid, Sida. He had trusted her throughout his appointed office and marriage.

When he approached, she bowed, slightly.

"I was told that you were leaving at sunrise. The Madame has been taken into the city for preparation into the afterlife."

"Thank you Sida." He paused; even the sound of his daughter's name had brought up memories of her mother. _God, how I wish you could have met her. _"I do not know when I will be back; it may be as late as the harvest season. But if I do not return, I leave Krystal and her future in your hands."

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><p><em>10 years later<em>

She had ridden somewhere to the east, among the golden waves of wheat and barley plants. Harvest was coming soon, and Sida had gone into town to start hiring workers again. Krystal had grown bored and began wandering the property on beast, exploring some places she had not seen before.

The wind was picking up a bit out of the east, stirring up the seeds and the smell of fresh wheat in the baking late summer sun. Just above the horizon, the moons were aligning with the Sister, a larger moon that rose and fell with the seasons. As the Sister peaked, winter came, and likewise, she fell with the summer.

Maybe Sida had come back from town and was already looking for her, but just one more sprint with the best beast. This time, though, she would sprint home. It was getting late, and news from the war had not come in three months. Her father was still out and everyone at the estate was still concerned. She galloped a bit, giving the beast a gentle kick, and rode farther east.

The beast was tiring out, she could sense it.

"Come on old girl, just one more push" she whispered, it seemed to pick up some speed, but they would need to return home soon.

Krystal and her father always had a competition: who could make it from a tree only three or four kilometers out from the house in the best time, and she was starting to catch her father. It took a while to walk to the tree itself, but she entertained herself in thought when she did.

Her father had always treated her like the world, even though he was always away at war for half the year. He stopped in when the rebels and the imperialists called the sacred armistice during the harvest season and the planting seasons. Stories of the wondrous lands beyond the district of Syrika like the mountains to the western front after the Dark Hills behind their mansion, the coastal regions to the east with rocky coastlines and the glorious battles there. The badlands and Pine's ridge to the south, supposedly the last resting place of the old ones and haunted by their spirits. Mages always took a pilgrimage to the badlands, saying that there was a presence there unlike any other. Recently, he had told her about the mountains and the tundra to the north and the last stronghold for the rebels and his own pilgrimage to the blade-master's monastery. He had brought back two of the finest Ed'rusian curved blades that anyone this far south of Geyoulbourne would find.

She had made it a point to visit these places at one time or another during her life. When Krystal told her father of this, he often laughed and told her to become a diplomat or a representative like her mother.

Krystal however, did not find these occupations as pleasing as her father liked. She wanted to be one of the legendary warriors from the stories that Sida told her. Traveling the lands of Illisia, preforming heroic deeds and saving the province from total destruction or making a brave rescue of a member of the royal family, in turn, becoming governor of a province, much like her father.

But that was only a wish, a someday on the horizon that would never be fulfilled.

There in front of her, not a few meters away was the tree. She had been totally lost in thought, forgetting to keep her wits about her. Chuckling a bit, she rounded the tree and began to focus. There was silence, for the exception of the wheat whispering, had filled the air as she prepared to make the jump from a standstill to a fast gallop, but lost the concentration when there was another noise.

Behind her, a strong galloping, three, no, four beasts, approaching from the north east.

A visitor, perhaps, of her fathers, she would inform them that he was not home and send them off on their way. But when she looked back, there they were, four beasts, all lined side by side, and all four riders she recognized.

As soon as she saw her father and the glow of his armor, she had not dismounted, but jumped from the saddle and ran.

Her father had dismounted with a shake of the earth as he landed on the ground, and then opened for an embrace.

Laughing, she embraced her father, holding back tears of joy and avoiding being pinched by his breastplate.

"Krystal! How was your summer?"

"Wonderful," she said, releasing the embrace, "Sida began sending me to the school, but I don't exactly enjoy it, my masters are strict and boring."

The four gave out a grand laugh. Krystal herself was slightly embarrassed. Her clothing was not fit for such an introduction, only wearing a pair of riding pants, a brown shirt and tunic.

"Perhaps if there was more swordplay, then it would interest you?" Asked Gian, her father's first man, Krystal quickly nodded in glee as her father picked her up and held her in her arms, another laugh was had.

"I would think that your daughter, Lord General, is a born fighter. Not a diplomat of any type," began Tulas, the top sergeant, "Takes after her father more so than her mother."

"Krystal," He smiled, sighed, then with a hint of frustration, "you know your mother wouldn't have enjoyed that comment, but perhaps we can spark some interest somehow. I do have many stories to tell you about Geyoulbourne and the northern realm."

"Father, are they staying with us?" She asked.

"Of course! But we have great news, but I'll have to share it in front of Sida, the townsfolk, and when the Generals arrive."

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><p>The square in the town of Syrika was a simple stone and mortar plaza with a statue of Lyrikos III, thrusting the sword given to him by the Emperor into the sky. Lord General Kirgios had this sword in his possession as a sign of his governance, but only displayed it during the fall festival.<p>

Surrounding that was a fountain where the townspeople gathered to collect water and small gardens. All around the plaza were arches of stone, built of mortar, and topped with clay tile roofs. The sun was barely setting over the western horizon and to the east, a dark purple evening came to embrace the world. This evening was especially busy, as the harvest was to begin soon. People entered the plaza in a whirlpool, hiring workers and searching for foremen to work the Lord General's fields. Historically, Syrika was a peaceful and farm-orientated country, the residents known for their finest wheat in all of Illisia.

Krystal rode back with her father and the three of his top officials to the town just west of the estate. They passed through the front gates and a silence, followed immediately by a cheer introduced them. A grand welcome from the citizens and the harvest workers, but was quickly quelled by the Lord General with news of the generals' visit. A visit by every major general in all of Illisia was the most honorable event such a small district could have. When Lord General spoke, Krystal noticed, there was an uplifting quality of it all that was not there before. A joy had entered his mind and moral, and that of his people. They were happy with his rule, if anything, they were proud to stand behind the Syrikan banners.

"But," he interrupted before sending them off to work, he was still mounted and voice booming throughout the plaza, "You are the first people to know of this. And because you have helped me during these bitter times of civil war, I thank you. The army of Syrika is already at the doorstep of the rebel's fortress in the Matashina Mountains to the north. Our victory is closing in ever quickly towards our grasp."

So this was the cause of joy! A cheerful roar entered the crowd, one of celebration and festivities and a chant grew: _Hail! Lord General! Hail, Illisia! Hail, Kisre!_

The town square began to fill with hundreds more citizens, some even climbing the statue to get a view of the five riders.

"However," he interrupted, "This means that the harvest is cut short. Tomorrow even before sunrise, I will need you to be at your freshest and ready to display to me the work efficiency and determination that Syrika is so well known for. For I enter a critical time in this war, we cannot think to lose another second to the clock. If you do complete the harvest in three days, I will grant you a harvest festival fit for the very emperor of Illisia himself!"

Three days? Even Krystal knew that completing a harvest in three days' time was edging on the realm of impossible. It would take a week or more to even cut down the fields. Even more so, it meant a blood harvest was on its way…

A blood harvest was forbidden by the doctrine of The Way. Kisre strictly prohibited it. Any blood spilt during the Harvest was blood spilt by all and to be paid with offerings or blood of the guilty, contingent upon the severity of the sins.

A murmur entered the crowd, and then one of the elders spoke up.

"Does this not mean that we would initiate a blood harvest?"

"Yes," the lord general said speaking in a somber tone and dropping his tail. Murmurs arose among the people, "Dear Kisre help us, but the rebels have no crops that yield in the Matashinas. That only leaves them time to attack us. Unfortunately, a blood harvest will be upon someone. We cannot risk these men to grow their forces, only for our imperial army to be attacked in a harsher Mykozuman winter. Our war is almost over, and an era of prosperity is about to begin. But sacrifices must be made if we are to see the end of this travesty in our lifetime."

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><p>If there was any a colder moment on this hellish earth, you would have to be in the deepest pits of hell to find it.<p>

Forsaken Tumas, stood outside of the gates and breathed. The cold, bitter air of Mykozuma filled his nostrils, burning as it entered. His ears felt no warmer, even hidden under his brown cloak he could feel the wind rushing in beneath the hood as it nipped at the edges: the first signs of fall.

A great magister once wrote that warfare is an era of abnormalities. The common man would not survive, however, the one who would think on his toes and adapt to the situation at hand would be the lone survivor. This of course, told true of current events.

Blood Harvest.

He never thought he would feel more welcome in that word before. What's a cornered prey to do? Wait while the predator attempts its business elsewhere required by religion? Perhaps, but attack was a necessity that either side couldn't sacrifice. Wait until the lethal Mykozumain winter to send our troops to their end? He was not some dumb Dodieric trapper filth that felt an obligation to Kisre. Kisre had blessed his righteous cause in the beginning, but when the Imperial army grew and the end was just on the horizon, Kisre had betrayed him.

He no longer needed Kisre.

It was indeed a great honor, a great deed to rebel. The unrightfully crowned, bastard Emperor had paid for his sins, and when they march upon this stronghold, they will pay dearly once more. He himself was once the court magistrate for the true Emperor. But when the assassin drove a blade through the Emperors gullet, then hell unleashed its true form upon earth.

The Emperor himself claimed no successor, many came forward, but the magistrate would use alchemic spells to truly see who the true man among the facsimiles was.

The blood of the emperors truly does show. A certain flower combined with the powdered bones of a night-gale and crushed together and it would turn a deep hue of blue. While he was in charge of testing, one pauper came forward claiming to be a bastard of the Emperor. This forsaken woodsman filth came from the southern forests of Galrog. He claimed that his mother was ravished one evening while the Emperor was on a hunting expedition. Although there were doubts, when he produced an Amulet of the Dark ritual of Kings (only five are known to exist, very powerful and dangerous things indeed) and claimed that the Emperor gave it to his mother, all doubts were removed. The other magistrates and even the chamberlain-in-charge backed his word and testing was omitted.

But one evening, Tumas snuck into the room of this pauper and collected the blood needed by cutting a bit on his hand.

When he had performed the test, it was only off by a hair (a negative in his eyes), which even then, was considered good enough by the other magistrates to crown the bastard Emperor and to make Tumas the Forsaken Tumas, to be ever exiled to the northern wastes for his treachery of truth. Yes, for seeking truth he was exiled and stripped of his rights and dignity.

And thus, he found himself here, cornered again and fighting against the world. Perhaps Kisre will be more merciful of his death.

Somewhere behind him, the second commander Rykovik had come behind him.

"My grandfather always had a name for weather such as this," he said, "_The Reapers Scythe_, the calm before the storm that is! But then again, the crazy old man had drivin' himself mad with knowledge; that he did!"

"Tell me," Tumas asked, "Did your grandfather die in war or in peace?"

"In war, of course, when the Westerners invaded through the Matashimas he led a brilliant last stand. I guess it's a good omen, that I'd die here, close to his final resting place as well."

"Well, perhaps we need not worry of death. I know a few good men, still in the employment of the empire who would help us escape to the East, across the oceans."

"Eh, I wouldn't do that. Illisia is my home, I was born here, lived here, and I will die here; even if it's by my kinsman."

"My friend, I respect you for that," Tumas replied, putting a hand on Rykovik's shoulder, "My sense of honor isn't so defined. Perhaps I haven't found my peace yet."

"Peace," Rykovik said slowly, "only comes when you've found your calling. Perhaps we shall die on this battlefield. My friend, I feel as if you have no fewer honors than I do. I would be proud to proclaim that we died side by side."

"As would I"


	3. A study in Fire

Chapter 2: A Study in Fire

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><p>"…<em>Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,<em>

_The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere_

_The ceremony of innocence is drowned;…"_

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><p>In Cerenian magic, there are three positive energies: blue, red and green. Green is the flexible energy, upon its summoning; it flows like water or gelatin. Mages often pair this property with clubs, war hammers, and pellets to shoot at opponents. Other uses vary from holding two items together or enchanting weapons to hold fast as opposed to flimsy leather bindings. Blue magic is the opposite, brittle and sharp like glass. Mages often summon swords using blue magic or summon spikes from their arms and jutting from the ground. Available enchantments are often to make swords sharper. Red magic is incredibly destructive. Having properties like fire or acid. Mages often lay traps with red and enchantments are often in the form of pseudo-poisons attached to the blade.<p>

However, Tumas had heard legends of another magic to the western lands, the essence of fire conjured for the layman to use.

His caravan consisted of three pack luds, with the last of his remaining gold. He had no use for such items.

Through the rocky Mykozuman mountains, he, Rykovik, and three of his best bodyguards wandered a mountain path. Somewhere, the westerners were supposed to meet him.

Their subtlety pleased him, the grace in which they moved. Turning a bend around a crag that stuck from the ground, there was one arrow behind his head, another to his right as an archer laid on the ground with a longbow. In front of him, a man heavily armed held in his hand the once mystical firebreather.

The man gave a wide grin, behind him on the path were more pack luds with packages on their backs.

"I assumed you wouldn't show up," Tumas said.

"A westerner never forgets," he said, noticing Rykovik and nodding. Rykovik in turn gave a small growl, "And I see neither does an Illisian."

Rykovik put his hand on his sword, the man pointed the firebreather in his direction and pulled back a lever.

"That will be unnecessary," he said, then to Tumas, "I assume you have our transaction ready?"

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><p>It was gentle at first, but he was a light sleeper. Blue sunlight crept through the window and the seagulls from King's Harbor cried out. Perhaps the maid had left the window open, he was sick these last couple of days. The wind seemed cooler though, the seasons were changing. His advisors would probably advise him to start organizing grain stores in Kiliros.<p>

He almost drifted back to sleep, but was awakened suddenly by rapping on the door.

'My Emperor, are you awake?'

'Yes, I'm fine, please wait a moment.'

Stepping out, he wiggled his toes along the shag rug, careful not to let his claws dig in too hard.

When he was dressed, he stepped out into the balcony to refresh himself for the day. Below him were the Illisian warships, pride of the crown and the Emperor before him.

Yes, that was a trip, wasn't it?

He walked back inside, to the door along the back of the room. He stood there, half asleep, staring at the door for a couple seconds, before opening it, revealing one of his advisors. The advisor stood in the bright hallway, already robed and carrying several sheets of paper: the morning briefing.

"Give me a moment if you would please, I have yet to prepare."

"Yes, but I advise haste. Several events have occurred this morning."

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><p>The last article of clothing to put on was the crown, a simple piece of jewelry, but the jewel and enchantment that it held were priceless. It sat in the hair, but instead of the female tiara which swooped downwards across the forehead, it stayed along the hairline with the single jewel extending upwards. Every time he put it on, a small twinge of guilt entered his mind. The journey to obtain it was…sketchy at best. His experience with leadership only rooted in governing a small parish in Dodier. Becoming emperor of the empire was the largest and most overwhelming step. By law of nature, he was in no way strong enough to rule over the empire, especially with a rebellion at hand.<p>

A rebellion disputed over his rule of course….

It was moments like putting on the crown, he couldn't help but doubt himself, was this really the destiny Kisre laid before him? The more he dwelt upon it, the heavier the burden became, the more doubt entered his mind, the more the mistakes he made as Emperor magnified themselves. It was this moment in time, he felt like the page in the royal house of Dodier in his youth. He looked into the mirror, the teen that enjoyed innocence so much, the cares of adulthood non-existent, was now wearing the clothes of the most powerful man on the continent. He blinked, his ears perked in a semi-shock, the eyes were no longer filled with innocence, but the eyes of a man who made enough decisions in his lifetime.

Anger grew, he wasn't meant for this. His hand clenched into a fist and began to tremble. His anger, however, was quelled by knocking on the door.

"My lord, the court awaits your audience."

"Yes, I am coming"

He looked into the mirror one last time, his appearance changed again and there he was, _Fodier un'reh Grund VIII,_ _The Emperor-child_.

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><p>The Syrikan Academy is perhaps one of the less grandiose school-houses in Illisia. Each city in each province always took pride in their own educational facilities; always building multi-story palaces sitting on the perch of a mountain or cove with effigies of Kisre or a long forgotten Emperor standing guard in front. Syrika, however, was a farming province, the wealth of the land, a good pipe of fireweed, and the simplicity of good company and good drink was enough to make any Syrikan content. Education was met only with a three story converted market house in the business district of the town of Syrika.<p>

Although her father was in town, Krystal still attended classes every day. She would sit in the benches, staring outside while the denizens of the town scurried around like ants, preparing for not only the harvest festival, but to host the nine grand generals in a martial summit, the first to take place in Syrika in over a century.

The golden light floods in from the side of the room, the students seated at tables in front of the teacher who stands in front of a map of Illisia with different flags and pins punched into it. He fidgets with two pins, then proceeds to his lecture.

"…After the tribal period of Illisia, Emperor Kiliros established the Kiliros region, binding the clan together. To the immediate north of Dachio, he fought the battle of Mochikayo where his victory over the Dachian clan was assured..."

The history of the Kiliros clan, Krystal had heard this story a million times from her father. The teacher, however, was more focused on the political aspect of the establishment of the empire than her father who laid down a story of greed, obedience, and honor.

Next to her sat Liska, her closest friend. She had her head leaning on her left hand and staring down at the table. When Liska looked around, her eyes met with Krystal, and she gave a look that had boredom written all over it. Krystal in turn gave a little shrug and smile.

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><p>Lunchtime was free, the first floor was open air having been the former market, and stalls once lined with racks of food were now turned into tables for students to eat.<p>

Krystal waved goodbye, as Liska behind her disappeared into the crowds of other students. Krystal walked off, then reaching into her messenger bag, pulled out a coin purse, pouring it out in her hand, she counted off 20 gold coins and then felt content.

She walked through the crowd of people at market, although normally she would be on the lookout for her father's servants, she was more careful than ever now that her father's sergeants were in the city.

Over her tunic she had robes for the chilling weather. Pulling over the hood, she disappeared into a side street.

After walking a short distance, to the left there was a single door. She knocked on it and it opened quickly revealing an older man. He looked around for a bit, but then looked down at Krystal and smiled.

"You know, usually my students like to meet in the front, you however, seem to have a knack for secrecy," he smiled.

"I'm sorry, my father is in town, and I'm sure you know about the meeting he has."

"Of course, of course, this brings me to my next topic however. Sida did provide payment for this month," Good, she could save the twenty gold pieces, "but she as advised against further training until your father leaves the city. Of course, I'm sure you'll be spending time in the temple than in here."

True, when father was at the brink of a dangerous battle, Krystal and Sida often spent their time in the temple in prayer.

"It is fine then , my training can continue afterwards," she paused, "Did his sergeants come to this place?"

Then, the elder man stepped aside. Inside seated at a table was Gian, her father's top lieutenant.

* * *

><p>Dinner at the house was very quiet. Her father had a twinge of disappointment in his eyes. Their meal was silent, save for the sound of chewing and the occasional clink of silverware echoing through the dining room, the only light coming from the moonlights in the window and a fire burning in a hearth at the center of the room. The dining room was large with a rounded table that sat fifteen; in the middle was a fireplace that kept the room warm in the winter. The two sat across from each other, and were the only people in the room.<p>

Finally, her father set down the silverware.

"You know, your mother would be disappointed…"

"…I know," Krystal said, with a growl.

"You're still young, still only ten winters old, and you're already trying to learn the ways of the blade. Warfare is an adult matter, you don't need to be jumping into it…" he trailed off, then, "…You remind me of your mother, always headstrong…"

That was it.

Krystal slammed her silverware down on the table. Anger filled her eyes.

"I never met my mother! Why do you keep bringing it up like she's still alive?"

"Krystal, beca-"

"Please! Whenever I do something wrong, you always bring up how she would've done it, how she would have faced the challenges, how she would be disappointed.

"Krystal, I…"

"Every time you bring up the nation, every time you bring up the empire, all I hear about is how peace can bind the separations. How my mother could've done it, how she _would _have done it."

"Krystal…"

"Yet here you are, the Lord General, not only a leader in war, but you're the highest ranking…."

"Enough!" His voice boomed in the halls, Krystal's heart skipped a beat, he rubbed his brow, then with a whisper, "that is because it is my job, and my duty. I did not choose this position, it was appointed to me and even I do not approve of it. This however, is not your business, nor is it your position to question it. My business is a cruel one, and I wish for it not to linger here in my home."

Krystal stood there, wide eyed, as her father leaned back in his chair and then dabbed his mouth with a napkin.

"Excuse me," She got up, and left, her voice shaky. She walked to the door, hands folded in front of her and looking down at the ground.

When the door was closed, Kigios slumped back in his chair. As much as he loved his daughter, he wished only the best for her. Combat training at her age was much too young. Even though he started his training at the age of eleven, he only had wishes for a better home for his daughter…

Taking a sigh, he reached for the ale and poured his chalice full.


	4. Wish upon a Fallen Star

**Be aware, added section to last chapter, moved another to this chapter.**

_Chapter 3: Wish upon a Fallen Star_

* * *

><p>"…<em>The best lack all conviction, while the worst<em>

_Are full of passionate intensity…"_

* * *

><p>With the new weapons came the only week of training, as their operation was incredibly complex and required perhaps more time to fully master.<p>

They had none, of course.

The first time Tumas fired the weapon, he struggled with inserting the powder within the barrel. Once he was able to then load the projectile, he lifted it up to his arm, as the seller told him to.

He pulled back the lever shakily, not knowing exactly how fragile it was. When it had clicked into place, he raised the sights to his eye.

Nervousness overtook him, the front swayed back and forth as he tried to keep the front sight on the archery-target center but failed utterly. Instead, he timed the swaying with the moment the sight eclipsed the target, a heavy thing indeed.

The grey sky caught his eye a bit. The snow was falling in large pieces now.

No, concentrate on the target ahead, if you are to beat even the True Eyes, then focus is of the utmost importance.

When he was fairly certain that it would sway back to the center, he yanked the trigger.

The force sent him reeling back, his right ear numb from the crack that now echoed throughout the frozen fortress courtyard.

All eyes were upon the target, Not only had the ball passed through the hay target effortlessly, it had also split it in half down the side of the second ring. The stone wall behind it had a gash no more than a few inches deep.

Two commanders, the quartermaster and a few soldiers watched in amazement at the wondrous thing, like a child discovering a new toy. Yet, even he saw it in their eyes: awe was accompanied by fear of the thing.

His shoulder began to scream in pain for a bit.

With footsteps crunching the snow, Rykovik approached Tumas, taking the weapon from his hands as he himself began to load the thing.

When he took the shot, Rykovik, being of larger stature, had not moved one step. Instead, the front end of the weapon popped upwards.

He let out a hearty laugh as he inspected it, letting it waver in his hands before turning around.

"Cold iron indeed, archers may become obsolete when even our most common soldier becomes proficient with it."

"The man from the west was correct; it is a most dangerous thing," replied Tumas, lost in thought, shivering, and rubbing his hands as he breathed clouds of warm breath upon them.

"Danger is a necessity of every weapon, the warrior will have to cut himself before he understands the true nature of his blade."

"That, unfortunately, is what I fear with this," then he paused, taking a deep sigh, the commanders left to their own posts still in amazement, "These are the very blades of the dark ones, cold precision, death even beyond a moment's notice, instantaneous. There is no room for mistakes."

"Then we shall start training now?"

"Yes, be ready in a week," then he paused, "Is regret the best way to describe it?"

Rykovik handed the thing to the quartermaster, and began to walk with Tumas, "How do you mean?"

"Our enemies fight with steel, we fight with fire. When we march into battle carrying the breath of the Dark Ones are we to feel remorse for the slaughter that is to take place?"

"In battle, a man does not feel remorse. Instead, he does what is necessary."

"Then it is only I who feels regret then?"

"Perhaps it is a passing thing."

They walked up to the south tower, overlooking the mountains. Silence hung like the snow; howling in the distance the sharp yet gentle winds glided upon the distant slopes.

Tumas broke the silence.

"A passing thing indeed, perhaps I should live with my decision instead, accepting the benefits and consequences."

Then, he winced a bit as shots below were fired, popping out of sync, then he let out a long sigh as if he was holding his breath the entire time.

* * *

><p>Everything was…gone…stolen from her…<p>

That was probably the best way to explain it.

This was her decision, not her fathers. Who was he to decide what path she wanted?

But no, arguing was useless. _It's what your mother would have wanted._

The thought of those words angered her, her mother wasn't even _alive_. How could he know what she would have truly wanted?

The night stood still, the stars like pins in the sky, the clouds of heaven a deep purple splashed across the center and the moons rose high, lighting the wheat fields with a ghostly color.

The crickets sang their songs and the wind let the wheat whisper.

Krystal closed her eyes, letting the wind blow across her face, making colder the trails where forced tears trailed.

A warrior's path, yes. She wanted this more than anything, to prove her worth in battle and to be named a hero in the legends and her name among the ranks of others. She would tell Sida this, and Sida would respond about the wandering minds of children. This Krystal also resented, slightly.

But a governor? What use was an official? Talk was idle; little was done even in the Council of the Federations. Open disagreement was and should be the only way to settle!

_Calm yourself…._

It wasn't like he was setting a prime example of peace. He alone had killed thousands of his own countrymen in this civil war yet he asks his own daughter to enjoy the blessings of peace? Preposterous!

_Breathe_

She stopped thinking for a moment, and breathed in the cool night air, realizing her surroundings.

She often came up here to be alone among the sky, the clay tiled roof of the manor, to think, to vent or to simply relax.

She laid back, putting her hands behind her head and breathed, emptying her mind for the moment.

Moments passed, she lost track of time, watching the stars dance above her. Not a cloud in the sky, save for the dust of heaven that formed a ring in the center.

For a while, she rested her eyes, listening only to the wind and her heartbeat.

It startled her a bit, the clanging noise to the right of her. She opened her eyes, sat up, and looked over. A rock had hit the tile roof…

Looking down, three figures stood in the night, one of them waved.

"Krystal!"

She quickly hushed them, it was Liska, with two more.

"I'll be down" she replied, in a softer voice.

Entering her room from the window, she quickly walked to her bedside, sat down, then slipped on her quietest shoes. Leaving her room, she took care to slowly close the door.

Even though it was offered to her, she declined to move to a more 'stately' room. The attic was hers from her childhood, and it would remain that way. She felt closer to the sky, closer to the heavens, and it comforted her.

Outside her room was a small landing, then a set of stairs that led to the third floor hallways. The walls tan from the clay that was baked into them with the occasional sliding door along each side.

Quietly tip-toeing, listening to her surroundings, gauging each step carefully as to not wake anyone, she cleared the third floor, reaching the stairs at the end of the hallway.

On the landing to the fourth, one of the sliding doors down the hallway creaked open. Sida walked out, started down the hallway, and then froze for a bit when she saw Krystal.

"My my, going for a stroll are we?" She started walking towards her again.

Krystal saw no other way out, Sida's senses were strong, and lying would only make it worse. She nodded yes.

Sida finally approached her, she put a hand on Krystal's shoulder, "Your father was worried about you, running out of dinner like that child."

Krystal took a breath; although staggered, perhaps holding back more emotions, Sida would see right through it.

"As much as he may shelter you, it's all in good intentions. He understands more than anyone, you had the same spirit of your mother." She sighed, "Perhaps you will find it in time, but for now, I simply ask that you heed your father's wishes."

Krystal gave a little nod, acknowledging her suggestion. She would think of it later.

Sida took hold of Krystal's shoulder, and then began walking down the stairs with her.

"Walking these halls I still sometimes hear your mother's voice, strong as she was intelligent. Her gift was great, stronger than most with the ability to see. Yes, I had served your father from the day of their marriage." They reached the bottom floor. "A lot happened in these halls, child. The stories they could tell would be innumerable. The Kigios clan is a legendary one indeed, legacy filled with scholars, warriors, and great mystics. Although your father hangs to tradition, I instead wish to see you both create your own legacy."

Krystal nodded again, looking down at the floor.

"Well now, I will retire, I urge you to do the same. However, if you do happen to find yourself outside," she winked, "Please make it as quick as possible."

* * *

><p>Reaching out, she let the grain slide against her hand as the group ran. Liska beside her frantically galloping as the two others behind them gave chase. The first was Kara, the daughter of a farmer. The other was Sadre, the son of a merchant.<p>

The night was warm, the air as still as breath and the moons high upon the sky painting the wheat silver in the breeze.

The group played tag in the field, running until one tripped, then one by one, each followed.

Laughing and giggling uncontrollably, they laid among the wheat, staring into the sky.

Kara spoke up, "My father says that the stars are Kisre's angels in the sky, protecting Çyre'Nira from the black Nether."

"Well, my dad says that they're the guideposts for the spirit world," Krystal said, "When you die, they guide you to Çyre'Kirst."

"Well, what do you think they are Liska?" asked Sadre.

"My uncle works at the astrology guild, he says that they're all suns, just like ours, with other people, just like us!"

Then, Krystal laid there dwelling upon Liska's answer, perhaps imagining that on these stars, many lengths away, four other children were reaching out for them as well, grasping into the void to something almost unobtainable.

"Well, I think they're heavenly warriors, fighting for rule over the heavens," Sadre said.

Again, she could imagine it. A mighty warrior with a sword of fire, making battle with other knights of the sky, jousting among the heavenly cloud that sat upon the horizon. Chasing each other around the moons.

Then, a star suddenly streaked across the sky, scarring the black with a streak of white.

"When a star falls, a warrior gave his life for his people to rule over the Heavens." Sadre said.

"Well, someone make a wish!" Kara yelled with excitement.

Krystal closed her eyes and smiled, she made her wish long ago, but perhaps was waiting for this time to make prayers for it at last.

* * *

><p>Farming was a simple life; it was joyful and honest work.<p>

Cusso was known for warm weather and for its finest wines throughout all of Illisia, a common honeymoon spot for newly-weds and lovers seeking resort among these lands. It was also the more peaceful, being farthest away from the trifles and troubles of war.

This evening was a fine night, Redka enjoyed the soft night after the hard day's labor. The Suno fruit was not an easy crop; years of apprenticeship and even more of training. But the payoff was more than enough, the crop was a staple in Illisian diet, it also made the finest wines in the nation.

The farmer lethargically lit his pipe, then rocked his chair on the porch. In front of him, his field rolled over one hill, the crops forming lines, meeting at a line in the horizon where the great sea began, the last of the sun had just touched the horizion. He removed his dust ridden gloves and hat, then closed his eyes for a nap.

Five minutes later, the ground began to quake, he rose suddenly from his sleep, and snapped his eyes open. Throwing on his hat, he ran off the porch and into the field.

A great ball of light shone in the approaching purple night, a new sun was hovering just above the horizon.

Suddenly, faster than he could move his head, the sun streaked across the sky in a great line, headed for the ocean. The ground moved stronger at this point.

Then, the air around him seemed to close, a great snap filled the air for a split second and he clenched his ears as best as he could. The pain was insurmountable, two hammers upon each side of his head would've been far less punishing.

Moments passed, he had held himself in a ball on the ground until his pain passed a bit.

When he came to his senses, he looked to the horizon. His hearing wasn't restored, and he'd expect it not to for a while.

However, the second sun had set, crashing into the sea with a wave that spanned into the sky.

* * *

><p>Night fell upon the castle, Tumas stood in the highest lookout tower on the wall with his scout.<p>

He pulled from his pockets a small leather case and opened it revealing two lenses. He then conjured green and fashioned the lenses and the green into a looking glass. Adjusting it, he was able to spot a few lights in the distance.

Taking the glass away from his face, he then pointed in the direction of the lights, only barely visible by the naked eye.

The scout nodded, and then disappeared.

* * *

><p>That morning, many records give account to this battle, although their consistency is questionable, many still take this as the final word.<p>

The capital of Motchikyo sits on a plateau, a mountain top that had been cleared away over thousands of years to make way for the large settlement. The watch tower, however, was the remnants of the peak that once adorned the mountain top at the center of the city, spanning several hundred feet into the air.

Two guards had alerted the Governor of the state of a small army approaching from the west, count? Two platoons at best.

Two platoons to take on a Capital? Perhaps this was a sign of peace! If the rebels were retreating, this was grand news indeed, Blood Harvest would not manifest itself this year.

It was true, there were no gleam of swords or spears, no signs of bows or arrows, only wooden sticks, perhaps for walking the distance from their fortress maybe? Perhaps.

The Governor sat perched on a tower around the main gate. His flag bearer rode out. The black Sunderbeast on a field of White, wings outspread and claw grasping a curved blade. It was unharnessed, for the untamable wilderness that spread throughout the Motchikyan mountains.

The flag bearer and his best ambassador met with two more riders on beasts at the center. Outrageous! Perhaps it was a time of unorthodox however. Riding to meet in the center was an act of war, not of retreat.

No.

Then, the riders returned, dread splashed upon their faces.

The Governor then ordered the guards to lock the gates.

The conversation that took place was never recorded; it was between the color bearer, the ambassador, Forsaken Tumas, and his right hand man Rykovik. No scholar or magister was sent to record the words said between the men, such formality was reserved only for men planning to make war upon each other.

However, it was agreed upon that each army would march upon the other in two hours.

The spirit of Death, the demon of reaping, had fallen upon the field at that instant. A cold wind from the northern freeze began to nip at the air. The snow glistened upon the ground as the sun reached midday. Each man began his final prayers and offerings, to family, to brotherhood, to pacts unfulfilled and those completed ones lost in the plane of time.

The king had deeper thoughts on his head; his Magisters had prepared a bed of wheat from Syrika for this occasion. The offering of the Blood Harvest, prepared for the oncoming battle. It could not be burnt until the solders wiped their blades clean with the wheat.

Then, the gates reinforced, the guards outfitted as quickly as possible, all was prepared.

The rebel army began to march forward, the Governor sat perched upon the main tower at the center of the city, holding a spyglass.

What was this? Clubs? The rebel army expected to fight with clubs?

Then, just as they came upon the wall in range of his archers, they stopped.

The front line knelt down, the second line knelt behind them as well, then the third stood over them.

They raised their clubs to the walls.

Bursts of light came out of the ends; a few seconds later it was followed by the sound of gravel being crushed on a dirt road. The men at his wall flailed about suddenly, many falling to their knees in shock, what was this new magic?

* * *

><p>The hand of Kisre.<p>

Maybe.

No, their foul intention couldn't even summon the Old Ones for assistance.

The Commander at arms stood behind a wall in the gate guard tower, a hole in his arm keeping him from moving any further. However, he was better off than many of his men.

Some had holes poked in their chests, some in their throats, letting steams of blood jet. When he ran for cover, one of his men's head even exploded before his eyes.

This…unexplainable force…wreaked havoc unknown to even him, were the rebel solders suddenly magisters?

Pops, cackles, whispers surrounded him, the walls crumbled bit by bit.

"Fall back! Off the wall! Get behind the gates!" He shouted, whoever was left promptly followed orders.

Unbeknownst to him, this was perhaps the smartest order he could give that day.

The rebel army stopped its volley, Rykovik ordered his men to march forward.

A few archers who still had their arms working made whatever shots they could at the approaching platoon of men, some only able to lift themselves over the wall long enough to get a weak shot in. A few were promptly killed by the few rebels who were able to make their mark.

At the gate, the Rebels began to tear it apart with a battering ram and their fists. Several Motchikyan guards were able to fight back, removing random limbs through the holes the rebels made in the gate, thinning out the rebel forces.

Soon enough, the gate broke down, the rebels took shots at the crowd of guards rushing for the gate, the men leading the charge all fell in mists of red.

Soon, swords clashed with the iron and wood furniture of the rifles. Although a few shots rang out, a majority of the fighting returned to sword on sword.

However, the guard force was thinned, many with wounded arms who held their swords or shields improperly, a few limping from balls entering their legs but just missing bones.

It was three hours, and the rebels had taken the whole western quarter of the city, the guards had fell back and contained the rebels in the remaining two wards of the city.

* * *

><p>The aftermath was true devastation. Between swordplay, the carnage was limited to whole pieces and the blood. However, the breath of the demons was much different. Bones and teeth scattered about, some unidentifiable parts lay strewn about in the streets. It was more comparable to a man ripping a parchment of paper about rather than making cuts with a knife.<p>

Screams of the dying were heard, some servants began to soak up whatever blood they could in the streets. Although Tumas did not trust in Kisre any longer, it was best not to tempt fate. The rags of blood would be burned with an offering for forgiveness of Blood Harvest.

They said the streets of the city of Motchikyo were paved with ice. Really, it was more or less the stone of the mountain it sat upon, yet the bitter cold between ice and its stone was not easily contrasted. Tumas walked, his solders secured houses, shops, and residents. One hundred and fifty men cleared out the guard for a city of close to six thousand souls. This was not a feat one based upon skill, it was pure luck of the fates.

"I did not plan this rebellion to hold out for so long, I believed only me to have such a fighting spirit. These weapons may give us the upper hand, but I simply set out to prove a point, not fight to the death with it. I did not set out to topple the empire, only to make it stronger."

Rykovik walked slowly behind him, inspecting the damage as well.

"Your army is made of thieves, rabble, and those who fight because it is their profession. Many fight because it is their natural behavior to do so. Good intentions are enough though; it is the events that follow that are unpredictable. You did what you thought was right, so did every man that follows you unfortunately. We did not intend for this either, perhaps Kis…fate has a better intention in store."

Tumas summoned a little ball of green and blue in his left hand and began twirling them. He often did this to relax or to think harder.

"Maybe," then he let the energy in his hand go, bending down to retrieve a stray coin on the ground, "Wealth has a tricky way of influencing fate."

"How so?"

"Money and its lack of necessity was the reason for making that purchase with the arms dealer from the west. The fortress had a room of gold that the governor had stashed away. When we took control of the fortress, I had saved it for later use. Now that we were cornered, I saw no further use for it. Buying these weapons was out of impulse to spend the gold, not upon a solution for our state."

Tumas flipped it about in his fingers.

They continued to walk the streets, stopping every so often for Rykovik to give orders.

He gave the coin a flip into the air, and then pocketed it.

"I like to believe I can change the Empire. Although the Emperor's power is somewhat limited, and the Council of the Federations is weak, the perfect empire staffed by the more brilliant minds of Illisia, than an arbitrary blood lineage and appointed officials, could create a stronger Illisia; an Illisia to stand the ages!"

"Then think! Fate has given you this opportunity, you have taken it! The Empire can change if you take charge! When you demonstrate this power, perhaps the Emperor will give you his crown!"

Tumas laughed, for the first time in a long while, "I do not wish for the crown of Illisia, I can barely handle leading a small army. I like to think of myself as the voice of reason, irksome to the emperor to rethink the free privilege he stole from the proper men who should've been nominated Emperor."

But the thought did occur to him, "…yes, fate, perhaps…"

He lost himself in thought again.

"…yes, perhaps Kisre has given me these tools, to better change the Empire…"

Then, Rykovik noticed under Tumas' hood, the largest smile that he had ever seen out of Tumas.

Somewhere, two rebels were speaking to each other, one of them said, "looks like blood harvest is on its way…"


End file.
